


reforged

by galaxyeyedrops



Category: Persona 5
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 13:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13147317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxyeyedrops/pseuds/galaxyeyedrops
Summary: Every year comes with its own milestones.secret santa present for @clearestrod!





	reforged

**Author's Note:**

> apologies for formatting, posting it on mobile so messy
> 
> also smth smth emetophobia warning

At seventeen, Akechi Goro has all the makings of a teen heartthrob, billboard worthy smile and all. He has a  _ presence _ , Akira notices, that demands attention from the moment he enters a room, all eyes turn to him before he even speaks.

It's not unconscious, rather something practiced and refined—Akira, himself, has seen how well the other can turn it off in the metaverse, a simple change of posture rendering someone so gleaming and bright, invisible. Akechi has it mastered as a craft, a gentle gaze carefully molded over delicate features draws others in, an air of professionalism to make sure they don't get too close.

He slips once, slips twice—lets the edges under his facade show a bit too early—and that's all Akira needs. He smiles and flirts, returns every pleasantry in kind, making sure that the other remains by his side but nothing more.

Close but not too close.

It's a hell of a balancing act. Tip too far and he'll fall and shatter. Don't play at all and get blown to pieces anyways.

Akira walks across with steady feet—dances around the edges of Akechi's vision in the months following. And like many other thieves, he gets caught. Akechi swoops down from above. He congratulates him, smiles as he admits to liking him, then tries to kill him again.

His laughter, usually a charming tinkling sound, turns psychotic. He shatters—once, twice, and picks up the pieces, gleaming and jagged, and fights and fights and  _ fights _ . He knows little else.

At eighteen, Akechi is, in one word,  _ sharper _ . The remnants of baby fat vacate his face, revealing a more pronounced chin and a jawline to die for. His eyes scan each room he enters, assesses every person he walks past. He's got the same supernatural vision enhancement as Akira, but it far more adept at using it. Years of detective work (false or otherwise) stack up, his knowledge of police procedure shaping them into a finely honed weapons.

He speaks simply and to the point. Gone are those honeyed words and inane platitudes; in their place is only the bitter unforgiving truth.

He goes to school with Akira, sits in the same class, desk pushed against his during lunch. He doesn't have enough credits to graduate, he explains. Needs to repeat a year for all the classes he's missed.

Akira smiles—tries for sympathetic, tries for soothing, and then asks if he can copy down the other's notes. Akechi laughs, full-bodied and clear.

At nineteen, he is  _ Goro,  _ and he and Akira live together. They've decided on the same university, albeit different programs. He opts for psychology, not intent but open to the idea of becoming a social worker, while Akira stacks up political science classes, one after another.

He talks about a mentor of his, a member of the Diet—formerly disgraced, over dinner. He talks about the Phantom Thieves, about helping people, about changing the world, with animated hands and slowly cooling rice. Goro watches him, entranced, his own meal forgotten, as he listens to his usually quiet boyfriend speak about his dreams.

At night, they curl up together in the same bed, warm and covered in several blankets, and quiz each other on vocab words. They drift off, books still scattered, side by side.

With Goro's twentieth birthday comes a round of drinks. They've drunk before, both of them, casually and at formal gatherings alike—but there's something about the officialness worth celebrating, at least in the mind of his peers, so Goro lets them drag him along, only stopping to grab his boyfriend.

The izakaya they take him to is dimly lit and crowded. They wait near the entrance until seats at the bar are empty, filling them quickly. Goro's offered a warm hand towel and a couple of bites of silken tofu, which he accepts gratefully, and then a glass of beer—another, another, another…

They seem endless, a different pair of hands pour him a drink every round, a different voice yelling congratulations as they finish their own.

Akira holds his hair back as he vomits into a plastic bag. They're outside the izakaya, their college group long gone. It's late, the sky clear, with a few stars shining despite each and every one of Tokyo’s own lights working to make them invisible. The red lantern outside the entrance drifts back and forth slowly, bobbing whenever Goro heaves.

He leans back against Akira when he's done, when all that's left is a sour taste in his mouth. He breathes slowly—inhale, exhale. One breath and then another. Waits for the weakness to die down, the fever flush to leave his face.

“I never thought I'd get this far,” Goro confesses. He raises his head, struggling through the vertigo, and places it on Akira's shoulder.

Its awkward position; Akira's arm on his back, Goro slightly bent, leaning on the other. It's uncomfortable. It's perfect.

Akira thinks of his numerous arrests, of desperate plans, of himself and his friends constantly being one step away from death. “Same here,” he admits.

His voice is soft, barely a whisper in Goro's ear. It says little, carries more.

And Goro hears all of it.

Akira's twentieth birthday lands on a Friday. His parents and friends promise to visit on the weekend. He and Goro plan out the party, what restaurant they'll reserve, where everyone will stay. They finish up on Thursday and on Friday, the birthday itself, they skip all of their classes, decline their classmates’ numerous invitations.

They eat lunch at a popular couple's café in Omotesando. The coffee is good—nowhere near LeBlanc’s level but, to be fair, few are. They eat their fill of cake, ordering another full sized one at the register for later.

Goro carries the white cardboard box home, places it in the fridge while Akira changes into something more upscale. They head out again—a little shopping along the way, a lot of walking—until they reach another popular restaurant, this one for it's French cuisine. The lines are long, stretching across the nearby plaza and along a separate building, but then again, Goro thinks, one hand clasped in Akira's own; the other feeling around a fancy ring box in his jacket pocket—it's definitely something they can afford.


End file.
